‘I’m not really. Like I say, it’s not that kind of film.’
She looks at me blankly, and I match her gaze for a second, both of us completely still in the immaculate kitchen. She had it done up last year in best chintzy style; it was my birthday present to her, though they rarely take money off me. I wish they would, but I don’t know why. Makes me feel less guilty about never coming home, I suppose.
I break the gaze first and look around me. The kitchen looks exactly the same after the makeover as it did ten, twenty years ago. I stare at the Portmeirion china lined up on the dresser, the boxed sets of Poldark, Dallas and Laurel Canyon on the windowsill. The Microwave Hostess Cookbook, my mum’s cookery bible, is stashed neatly in the cubbyhole next to the microwave. The apron featuring a Roman statue’s naked body hangs off the pine hooks, and there’s even the same magnets on the fridge: I close my eyes – three Forever Friends bears, one holding a shopping list pad, one saying ‘A bear is a friend for life’ and one wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Hug Me’. I used to think they were the cutest things ever.
This is the house I grew up in. This is where I’m from. But I feel absolutely nothing, and a kind of cold panic grips me. I don’t belong here.
‘So, I’ll have to be the one to mention it first, I suppose.’ Mum rubs her hands together. I look at her, worried.
She can’t know about the stalker and the attack on the house. I haven’t told her, Deena doesn’t know. I explained the bodyguards away as ‘extra security insurance’ and she bought it, of course. I say cautiously, ‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, come on, Sophie. Like we wouldn’t talk about it! Everyone’s asking me!’
‘Asking you what?’
‘You are coy. But I can tell, even by looking at you, that you’re in love. You just look different. Oh, it’s exciting. I think he’s gorgeous!’ Her voice rises.
‘Mum, what are you talking about?’
My mother’s eyes sparkle as she pushes the plate of French fancies towards me. ‘Oh, come on, dear! Patrick? Your new boyfriend? Closer said you were going to marry him. Is that true? Of course you’d tell me, I just – is it?’
‘Patrick?’ My mind is blank. Then I say, ‘Patrick Drew?’
‘I know who he is, silly! I saw those photos of you two.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m not going out with him.’
‘You’re blushing!’ She points at me, delighted. ‘You can tell me, come on.’
I put my hand up to my cheek; it’s burning red. I say, annoyed, ‘It’s hot in here. I’m not going out with him, Mum, I promise you.’
‘It’s in all the magazines, Sophie.’
‘Oh, well, that must mean it’s true.’
‘They’re saying you’re serious. Now I didn’t want to ask you till I saw you. I’m very happy for you, love, he’s absolutely gorgeous!’
‘That’s … rubbish,’ I say, wishing my face wasn’t so hot. ‘Mum, I’ve met him two, three times in my whole life.’
‘But they had those photos of you two, kissing, touching each other …’
I frown, then remember. ‘Oh, good grief. No! That was a coffee we had for the film I was going to do, the one that got cancelled. I was showing him something and the photographers got me.’
She smiles, disbelieving. ‘Oh, really?’
‘Really, Mum,’ I say. I don’t know why I’m so annoyed. The more cartoonish photos from that coffee were everywhere immediately afterwards: Patrick losing it with the photographers outside, me clutching my breasts. They never got round to using the ones of us simply talking, looking intimate, till now presumably, when they need to give the story some more oxygen. I’d forgotten the photographers were there most of the time. I was enjoying myself. I wonder how he is, where he is. ‘We met to talk about the film, that’s it, I promise. He’s lovely.’ I bite my lip. ‘But there’s nothing going on.’
‘Silly girl! What you talking about!’ Mum refuses to give up on it. She slaps my wrist playfully. ‘I know you, you can’t hide it from your mother! It looks like he’s halfway to proposing to you! Think of it, oh, my goodness, what a beautiful wedding. And the coverage! You’d be in Hello! for absolute certain.’
‘It’s rubbish, honestly. Promise.’ I don’t think Mum has spoken all day, other than to herself. I take a last sip of water from the glass and stand up. ‘Mum, I’m sorry it’s so short, but I do have to get back. I promised the producer and Alec I’d have a meeting with them tonight about the schedule—’
Mum frowns. ‘You’re off already?’
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
‘I thought you’d want to give Donna a call, see if she’s around for a cuppa.’
‘Oh.’ I shrug. ‘I’d love to have seen her … I just can’t, sorry.’
‘You sure you don’t want to pop in and see Mrs Bates, stretch your legs? All that sitting around in a car can’t be good for you.’
She doesn’t care about Donna; she wants to walk down the high street with me, I know it. I don’t think Angie would have much to say about that. ‘I can’t, Mum, I’m sorry.’ I sound like a stuck record.
Her pearly-pink lipsticked mouth is turned downwards, a comical moue of spoilt disappointment. ‘I wish you could stay longer. You’ve been here hardly any time.’
Nearly two hours, Mum, and you’ve mainly talked about yourself, Patrick Drew, and how big my trailer should be, I want to say, but I don’t. I pick up my bag. ‘Come to the set. I’ll get Sara to call you and fix up a good time. You’d like to meet Alec, wouldn’t you?’
My mother almost bridles. ‘Oh, wouldn’t I? Go on then. Maybe, maybe you should suggest me for the part of Anne Hathaway, the older version!’ She touches me lightly on the arm with one almond-shaped coral nail, and gives a little laugh. ‘Be a bit of a story, your mum doing the part! Might steal the show from you!’ I look into her eyes and realise a part of her is deadly, 100 per cent serious, and I don’t know what to say.
‘I’d never do that to you, you’re my mother,’ I say, and I give her a kiss. ‘Thank you for having me. It’s lovely to be back.’ I look round the kitchen one last time.
The back door opens suddenly with a loud pop and I jump. Mum stares at me. ‘Afternoon, Marilyn,’ says a middle-aged man. ‘Early copy of the paper for you, thought I’d drop it round before it goes out tomorrow.’
‘Oh, thank you, Steve! How kind!’ My mother scurries over to the door and practically snatches it out of his hand. ‘Bye then, see you soon.’
Steve turns to acknowledge me. ‘Bye then,’ he says, then he recognises me, stops and stares. ‘So she’s here right now! Well, I never. This is … blow me down.’ He wipes his hand on his trousers, then holds it out. ‘Didn’t realise it. I’m Steve Jobs.’
‘Steve Jobs?’
‘Yes, Steve Jobs,’ Mum says. ‘Thanks, Steve.’
‘Your name is Steve Jobs?’ I ask him.
He looks pleased. ‘Name ring a bell? I’m on the Jubilee committee as well as editor of the local paper, and we do cover all the villages over towards Stroud. But not Stroud itself, obviously. It has its own paper.’ He rubs his shining pate. ‘I can’t believe I’m in the kitchen with Sophie Leigh! Can’t believe it. Big fan of yours, Soph. Big fan. So pleased! Well, so here it is!’
He opens the paper with a crackling flourish. Mum is strangely quiet as I read over her shoulder.
FILM STAR’S COMING HOME … ‘I OWE IT ALL TO MUM’
International screen superstar Sophie Leigh, 28, is coming back to the place she loves best – home. The worldwide star of The Girlfriend, The Bride and Groom and many others is staying at the Oak Hotel in Farley and filming down the road for another raunchy comedy! She’s told her mother Marilyn she can’t wait to come home for some of Mum’s home cooking! Marilyn Sykes, 50, gave the Shamley Examiner an exclusive interview about Gloucestershire’s most famous daughter. Marilyn, herself a famous actress in her day, says Sophie inherited her talent – and she doe
sn’t mind that she’s a star while she, Marilyn, is a housewife! ‘It’s not the life for me,’ Marilyn told me over tea in her beautiful kitchen on Dawes Road. ‘I never liked films. I preferred TV or the stage.’
‘Mum …’ I say weakly. ‘No one’s supposed to know where I’m staying … You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Yes. Well, I forgot, didn’t I.’ Mum gives a little laugh. ‘I remember now. Don’t worry though, dear. Who’s going to see it?’
‘No, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘I’m serious. Someone’s after me.’ She cocks her head on one side, looking at me. ‘You shouldn’t have given this interview.’
‘Someone’s after you?’
‘It’s probably nothing, but – that’s why I’ve got all these people all the time.’
She laughs again. ‘Silly Mums. But …’ I’m blinking, wondering how serious it is, and she suddenly says sharply, ‘Oh, really, Sophie. It’s not like you’re … Barack Obama. Who’s going to read the Shamley – Charlton Lacey – Ambleside Gazette?’
Steve Jobs looks hurt.
‘Anyone who has a specific Google alert looking for me,’ I say, trying not to shout. ‘Everything’s online now, even some crappy local newspaper.’
‘Hey,’ Steve Jobs says, but Mum holds out her hand.
‘Shh, please, Steve. Look, Sophie. I’ve got a life as well, you know. It’s about me too, you know. They wanted to know about me.’
I breathe out heavily, and just stare at her. I don’t know what to say. I am a horrible person.
‘Who’s this?’ I look up at the voice in the doorway. It’s Angie. She says to Steve Jobs, ‘Sir, can I help you?’
Steve Jobs looks utterly confused.
Mum says crossly, ‘This is my friend Steve. Do you mind?’ She looks annoyed, whether at me, at Angie, or at her interview I don’t know.
I turn to Angie. ‘It’s fine, honestly. Let’s go.’ I look back at Mum, but she’s looking at the photo of herself in the paper. ‘Mum, please don’t do that again. I’ll call you.’
She doesn’t answer. I don’t know if it’s because she’s cross with me, or because she’s absorbed in the photo of herself. But she turns back to the newspaper as I leave. One coral nail traces her grey-inked face on the paper.
I climb into the car. It’s raining again, a thick, heavy, silent sort of rain. I stare out of the window, trying not to cry, as we drive through the outskirts of Shamley. It’s grim here. No one could miss it. No one could want to stay here, or belong here. I sniff and shake myself. We go past Dad’s first garage, where I used to sit on the stool by the entrance, reading comics and eating sweets with him, when I was really small, and people would walk past and smile. That Chris Sykes with his new garage and his sweet little girl, he must be worth a go, they’d think. He called me his lucky mascot. Maybe he lied to Mum, maybe he’s here. I crane my neck to see him, but there’s no sign, and we carry on. The a Co-op, a charity shop, the bus stop the cool girls used to hang out at, and there’s –
‘Oh, my God.’ Angie jumps and Jimmy swerves, just a little, at the harshness of my voice.
‘Sophie? What do you see?’
‘What’s wrong, love?’
I jab my finger against the wet, steamed glass. ‘Donna. It’s Donna! Jimmy, can you pull over? Donna, my best friend from school, she’s over there—’
Angie says, ‘Sophie, we need to clear this if you’re going to get out.’
Jimmy pulls over. The rain is even heavier now. ‘Donna!’ I wind down the window and call her name. ‘Donna!’
A woman pauses at the entrance to the Co-op and turns around. My wet fingers fumble to open the door. She stares at me. It’s definitely Donna. She looks totally different, her semi-Afro hair scraped up into a messy ponytail, her face drawn and uneasy.
I yell again, my heart beating so fast. ‘Donna, it’s me! Sophie!’
An old man stares at me from the bus shelter. Donna glances at me from under her umbrella, her face immobile, then at the car. The automatic doors of the Co-op suddenly glide open as a clock somewhere starts to chime, and she turns and walks through the doors, not looking back.
There’s a silence in the car.
‘Maybe it wasn’t her,’ Jimmy says gently, after a few seconds.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Probably. Let’s just get out of here.’
We drive through the deserted streets, running grey-black with walls of rain, and soon we’re out on the main road again, and it might never have happened. I rub my eyes.
‘Miss Leigh,’ says Angie from the front of the car. ‘I’m talking to Gavin as soon as we get back. We can’t have you staying in the hotel if it’s been published in a newspaper. That’s a specific risk to your security. We’ll have to move you.’
‘Oh, Angie.’ I lean between the seats. ‘Seriously? Come on, it’d be easy enough to find out where I am if you wanted to. It’s only my mother spouting off in some local newspaper. It’s only just come out today, anyway.’
‘My job is to protect you, Miss Leigh,’ Angie says. ‘I’m not doing that if I don’t warn you about stuff like this. We’ll have to get you some options, that’s what we need,’ and she turns and speaks, softly and fluently, into the phone. I sit back, watching the town I grew up in recede into countryside again.
The next day I’m doing exterior shots in a rare break from the rain. It’s that stage in the shooting schedule when you seem to have been shooting for months and be no nearer completion. In a couple of weeks we are supposed to be moving on to Leavesden, to film the more technical and bluescreen scenes.
When I get back to the hotel Sara’s waiting in the bar, holding her BlackBerry aloft. As I raise a hand at Nicola, the hotel manager, and a couple of guys from the crew, she bustles towards me. On her face is a curious mixture of excitement and something else, I don’t know what it is. Fear?
‘She wants to meet you,’ she says. ‘She’s changed her mind. I – I don’t understand it.’
‘Who?’ I say stupidly, fiddling with the kirby grips in my hair, pulling them out and into my coat pocket. Sara hands me the BlackBerry.
‘I don’t understand it,’ she says again. It’s an email addressed to me, sent to my account. I read it aloud, and as I get to the end a big grin is sliced across my face.
Dear Miss Leigh,
Most unusually, I have received a phone message from Eve Noel. She would like to meet with you. She apologises for not replying to your previous requests but she has been prevented from doing so by circumstances beyond her control. She has been trying to contact you herself but has not found it possible to reach you. She has considered your proposal and would be interested in discussing the part of Anne Hathaway. To that end she would like you to visit her for tea next Monday. The address is Heartsake House, Charlton Lacey, Gloucestershire. She requests you arrive at 4.30.
I cannot emphasise how unusual this is.
Yours
Melanie Hexham
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY Tony Lees-Miller comes with me. Jimmy drives us. Mike, Angie’s afternoon stand-in, is there too of course.
I’m nervous like I haven’t been since I was auditioning for South Street People. Three failed auditions beforehand (an Ovaltine ad, a British period film about the Raj, and an ITV drama about runaway prostitutes which I was pretty glad not to get, if I’m honest) meant Mum and I were both extremely tense, as she drove me to London. Mum managed to make it clear that everything – all the money she’d spent on classes and private tuition and clothes and the rest of it – boiled down to this moment, that if I didn’t get the part, it would be a big deal. I chewed half my cuticle off, I was so nervous, and it spotted my new Oasis dress with red dots of blood: we had to stop at a Little Chef and sponge it off. Maybe the drama took my mind off the other drama, because I knew as I was acting that I was nailing it. I was in London, at last, out of Shamley, and I was good, too. I could start to see what Mum had been pushing for all those years.
I feel this drive is similarly important. They talk about ‘Act Three’ in scripts – the point at which everything has changed and you can’t go back to the way things were. I feel like we’re getting to Act Three. We’re going to see Eve Noel. I’m nervous, but I’m also uneasy, and I don’t know why. I don’t know what to expect.
We’re crawling through Charlton Lacey, a beautiful Cotswold village dozing in the rare afternoon sun. There’s a thin river, almost a stream, cutting along the edge of the last crop of buildings, and an overgrown field, with a dilapidated old building standing in the middle of it, the remains of a garden sloping down to the river.
‘Village doctor used to live there, back in the day,’ Jimmy says. ‘Shame, it’s a beautiful house. Been boarded up for years.’
The river runs through lush, low fields, a golden bridge arching over it, incongruous in the middle of nowhere. It winds near us, then away again, a grey-blue ribbon through the land. We drive a mile or so longer in silence, until the car swings round a corner and up a narrow path.
‘This is it,’ says Jimmy. Tony and I peer ahead. The drive is only about 20 metres long, but it’s impossible to see what’s at the end. There are yew trees on either side, so thick and black and unkempt the car almost gets stuck pushing through them.
It occurs to me that we are the first visitors for a while.
‘Do you want to get out here, sir?’ Jimmy says.
‘Maybe, maybe,’ Tony says. ‘Thanks, Jimmy. Wait here.’
Mike opens his door but I stop him. ‘It’s fine, Mike. I’ll call you when we get inside.’ He frowns but sits back again.
Jimmy hands Tony a bouquet wrapped in paper, and we walk up the drive. It must have had gravel on it once, but it’s dry and mealy now, thronged with chick weed.
A long, low house sits at the end of the thicket of yew. It must have been whitewashed once, but the surface is grubby, mildewed with years of neglect. There is ivy everywhere, creeping up the side of the house, curling into a lead window, around a chimney pot. There’s a smell of something too – oil? Gas? I peer through the window, but I can’t see anything at all. Then I realise I’m looking at cardboard boxes piled high, blocking out the light from the outside. Beside the front door, it says Heartsake House, or at least I think it was supposed to. The black pointed letters are decaying, swinging on red rusted nails, and the ‘t’ and ‘u’ are missing.
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